Chapter 09
Listen Closely
"Oh, take your time, don't live too fast
Troubles will come and they will pass"
"Simple Man" - Lynyrd Skynrd
03 September 1999
Glasgow, Scotland
Michael De Lioncourt never failed to be amazed by the various locales his profession required him to visit. As a private investigator, he had to travel wherever the jobs took him. This time it was Glasgow. At the moment, he sat in the Ben Nevis pub, sipping on a pint of stout and keeping an eye on his current assignment.
The man was a craggy-faced Scot with red hair and green eyes. De Lioncourt mentally reviewed what he knew of the man. Steven "Sandy" Traynor was a recently discharged staff sergeant from the British Army. Traynor had served for twenty-two years in the Army but now, being thirty-eight years old, he had decided to leave the job to younger men.
Traynor did not appear happy at all as he nursed his pint. His file said he had enlisted at age sixteen, the minimum age at which he could do so, and used the military as an escape from the doldrums of life in Scotland. Calling himself a "gutter Scot," Traynor's childhood had been hard and the army, by comparison, was an easy way out of the rough life he'd had growing up.
Traynor had even volunteered for the Special Air Service, the special forces of the British Army, and had done well while there. De Lioncourt smirked. The Scot could have held a higher pay grade than that of staff sergeant when he retired, but his short temper had often landed him in hot water and, as a result, reductions in grade. Despite those speedbumps, Traynor's overall record was exemplary. He wondered offhand why his client wanted a tail on the man at all.
De Lioncourt knew the official reason, of course. Traynor had contacts with foreign nationals and these acquaintances always caused concern with some people. Thus far, though, after three weeks of trailing the man, the Immortal Frenchman had noticed nothing whatsoever about the Scot that indicated any sort of nefarious, or even remotely illegal, activity on Traynor's part. In fact, he seemed to spend most days simply sitting at this pub with a perpetual glass of dark beer in front of him. Surely a bit of alcoholism wasn't a crime, was it?
De Lioncourt checked his watch. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening. This was Traynor's tenth drink since he had arrived at the pub at three. In the back of his mind, De Lioncourt noted that, in spite of his heavy drinking, Traynor did not appear to have gained any weight as a result. He still seemed to be in top shape, especially for a man in his late thirties.
Traynor yawned and tipped back his glass, emptying it. He signalled for another and stared glumly out the window into the twilight. De Lioncourt thought again that the man looked bored. Missing your old life after four months of retirement, are you, Sandy?
The eleventh pint arrived and Traynor nodded his thanks to the barman. He dropped another five-pound note on the table in front of him and took a long pull from the glass. He then returned his gaze to the window. With another yawn, he glanced down at the basket of fish and chips he had ordered an hour ago. He had barely touched it. After the slightest of shrugs, he picked up a piece of fried cod and bit into it. The expression on his face told De Lioncourt the Scot did not care for the taste of cold fish. The man chewed on regardless, following the greasy bit with another sip of Guinness. He ate half of the chunk of fish before losing interest and dropping it back into the basket.
De Lioncourt's own interest was starting to wane. He paid for his own half-drunk glass and considered leaving for the night. What was he going to learn by continuing to watch this man tonight? Certainly nothing more than he already had over the last several hours. Besides, he needed to update his observation notes and report back to his client at some point this week.
De Lioncourt let his eyes wander around the pub, not really focusing on anyone at all, until they came to the front entrance. A man was just now coming in from the street and removing his hat. With nothing better to do, De Lioncourt watched him for a while. The man walked nonchalantly through the pub as if he were long familiar with the place. He waved at the bartender, but only slightly. De Lioncourt made an effort not to be obvious with his interest now. The man was standing in front of Traynor's table.
Traynor slowly looked up at the man, an expression of total disinterest on his countenance. De Lioncourt was sure, though, that he detected a note of recognition in Traynor's eyes. The stranger bent down and took the coaster from Traynor's previous pint in his hand. Staring directly into Traynor's eyes, he placed the coaster on top of the Scot's current glass of Guinness.
"You're done," he said in a tone that De Lioncourt only barely managed to hear. "It's time to go. Follow me out the back."
Traynor just blinked up at the man. His eyes locked with the stranger's, he reached over to his glass and removed the coaster.
"I think not," he replied in a similar volume, just barely audible to De Lioncourt. "I'm not finished with my pint yet."
The stranger appeared mildly annoyed. He placed the coaster back on top of the glass. "Yes, you are," he affirmed. "Now, come with me out tha back."
De Lioncourt was definitely interested now. Glancing around, he saw numerous patrons quietly paying their tabs and slipping out via other exits. The barkeep himself appeared like he was rapidly, but quietly, going through his shutdown procedures. De Lioncourt's eyes narrowed. The pub did not close until two in the morning. Why was he wrapping up now? It was not even ten after eight.
"No, I'm not," repeated Traynor, removing the coaster again.
Scowling at the Scot, the stranger put the coaster on the glass a third time. The pub was nearly empty now. It was obvious by now that Traynor had noticed all of the clearing out, as well. "This is the last time I'm going to say this," said the stranger. "I don't really care how you leave, but you're leaving this pub. Right now."
Donning his own annoyed expression, Traynor replied, "Alright, then, but I'm going out the front door and I'm taking my pint with me."
The stranger did not argue with him. He merely stepped back and let the Scot pass. He then followed Traynor out the door. The slow walk and wistful glance around the pub made De Lioncourt think of a man walking to his own execution, taking one last look at the things he loved. Perhaps that was exactly what was happening. De Lioncourt watched it all, swivelling his head a little more than he meant to do. He wondered if the two men had noticed him observing them.
Coming back to his own reality, De Lioncourt noticed he and the bartender were the only ones left in the pub. The barman turned to say something to De Lioncourt, probably to tell him he needed to leave, as well, but never uttered a word. His eyes moving to the broad front windows, they went wide and the man dropped behind the bar.
Michael De Lioncourt's reaction time was slow. He had been paying so much attention to the activity within the pub that he did not notice what was occurring outside. He rotated his neck to look out the window himself. What happened next interrupted him.
Automatic gunfire from the panel van in front of the pub demolished the front windows and filled the air within with blazing hot hornets of lead. De Lioncourt fell from his stool as he was struck in the legs and abdomen by four rounds. He crashed to the floor, his head banging against the hardwood surface. The shock of the wounds delayed him a moment longer as he fought for breath…and consciousness.
The Frenchman crawled across the floor, not bothering to suppress the groan of agony his throat emitted. He could feel his body trying to heal itself, but knew it would take some time before he recovered fully. He left a trail of blood behind him as he slithered across the floor. Using his hands, he pulled himself into the kitchen and out of sight of the gunmen outside.
Cursing, De Lioncourt continued to high crawl across the floor. He did not think he could stand yet, but he could keep moving, damn it. He heard Gaelic cursing, more gunfire, and the sound of running feet in the pub behind him. He had to stand…now. He used the stainless steel sink in the back of the kitchen for support and pulled himself to his feet with his arms. He let out another cry of pain as his legs - and their shredded muscles - took his weight. He was healing, but he wasn't one hundred percent yet. Despite this, he staggered toward the rear exit.
The twilight was still bright enough to see. De Lioncourt did not like that fact since all he wanted to do right now was escape. He was currently unarmed, handguns being illegal for civilian ownership and a sword being too unwieldy. He sighed when he realized his only possible course of action was to hide. Grimacing, he also saw that the only place to hide was the dumpster by the door. Taking a precious moment to remove his windbreaker and put it on backwards to cover his wounds, De Lioncourt pulled himself up and over the dumpster's edge. He landed in - he didn't want to know what kind of hideous stuff it was - a layer of foul-smelling sludge. Biting his tongue to clamp off the nauseous groan threatening to slip from his lips, he pulled himself to his feet and then lowered the dumpster's lid over him.
De Lioncourt heard the gunmen emerge through the rear exit as he slowly lowered himself back into the unseen goop. Their footsteps stopped. He tensed. What if they decided to look in the dumpster. His spirits sank. They would shoot him. He was in no condition to fight back.
"Cac. Bidh an t-slighe fala a 'stad an seo," (Shit. The blood trail stops here,) one of his pursuers cursed. De Lioncourt's knowledge of Gaelic was pushed to the extreme by the man's accent and rapidity of speech.
"Gu dearbh, tha thu a 'fanaid, tha e neo-bhàsmhor," (Of course, you idiot, he is an Immortal,) replied another man.
A third voice, clearly exasperated, spat, "Dùin agus sgoltadh suas. Tha an dithis agad a 'dol mar sin." (Shut up and split up. You two go that way.)
De Lioncourt waited. He was far too familiar with the tactic of seeming to leave and then waiting at a particular spot for the quarry to show itself. He continued to lay in the sludge and pray the men were actually gone. After a few minutes, the necessity of his healing and the draining effect that had on any Immortal overcame him. De Lioncourt passed out.
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04 September 1999
Armagh, Ireland
No one in the town of Armagh knew much about the inhabitant of the small village. He visited on rare occasion and, when he did, showed himself even less. He seemed to enjoy his privacy and the townsfolk let him have it. If old Mr. Mac an Ridire wanted to be a hermit, what did they care?
There were rumors, of course. He was an arms dealer or a drug baron. Why else would he be away all the time or feel the need to send such gracious gifts to the charities of the surrounding area? Alleviating a guilty conscience, the town gossips said. There was no other explanation. In today's jaded society, good people didn't exist, right? The only reason anyone would do anything remotely selfless had to be if they were trying to buy back some piece of their long lost souls. Altruism? Bah! There was no such thing.
James MacNaughton knew all of the rumors concerning him. Even the more outrageous of them. He was a cannibal. He was a vampire. He was a demon from the dark depths. He laughed at them all. Why? He knew none of them were remotely so. Besides, what would the people think if they knew the truth about him? What would they say - or do - if they found out he was an Immortal - over two thousand years old, at that - and that he currently made his living in the United States as a masked professional wrestler? They'd either not believe a word of it, choosing to go with one of their other preconceived notions, or have him thrown into a padded room, that's what.
MacNaughton gazed through the tinted window of the second story of his villa down into the town of Armagh. He smiled. He had been born here, all those twenty-two centuries ago, and he still sometimes marvelled at how the place had changed from a dirty little hovel of a village to what it now was.
Of course, time even changes Immortals, too, he thought. Only on the inside.
A taxi pulled up to the villa's front gate and discharged a single passenger. MacNaughton watched the man wait for the driver to extract his bag from the boot and then pay him. The new arrival then began trudging up the path toward the front door.
The man was expected. A mutual friend of theirs had asked MacNaughton to board him for a few weeks while he studied Dutch. MacNaughton smirked. The boarder would get a little more than he had hoped. Since MacNaughton spoke the language himself, he would get some assistance with the spoken side of the tongue, as well, not just how it appeared in books.
When MacNaughton could feel the electric sizzle of the arrival's presence, he began to walk down the stairs to meet him at the door. He arrived just as Razumov knocked for the first time and swung the door open widely. He smiled at the nervous man.
"You must be Marton Razumov," MacNaughton declared. "Siobhan told me you were coming." He held out his hand.
"Yes," confirmed the other Immortal. "Thank you for agreeing to put me up on such short notice." Razumov shook his hand.
MacNaughton stepped aside to allow Razumov to enter. The man openly admired MacNaughton's home, standing in the foyer with his bag in his hand, wide-eyed.
"This is a very nice house you have, Mr. MacNaughton," he stated quietly.
MacNaughton laughed. "It took me many years of hard work to earn it. And, please, call me James."
"Please call me Marton," replied Razumov, turning to face MacNaughton. "Some of the men at the building sites sometimes call me Marty, but I never quite cared for it."
Smiling again, MacNaughton answered, "That is no problem, Marton. And while you are here, please treat this home as your own. Make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you," said Razumov, finally smiling himself. "I'm not sure how I can repay you. Especially for this kind of luxury. I've never lived like this."
MacNaughton dismissed the statement with a wave. "Don't concern yourself with that. I heard from Siobhan that you wish to study Dutch and it will be entertaining simply to converse with you in that language now and then."
Razumov's eyes widened. "You speak Dutch?"
"I do," MacNaugton replied. "And several other languages, but that is simply a result of a great deal of time and life rather than personal ability." He smiled again.
"Well," Razumov's smile grew. "It looks like I may be able to do more than simply stumble about with the language when I get to Holland, then."
"I think I can guarantee that," MacNaughton affirmed. "Now, let me show you to your room. After that, I have a light snack prepared for you. You can rest afterward, if you like, or, if the mood strikes, you can tell me about the little adventure you had at the church in Canada. From what Siobhan said, it was quite the affair."
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05 September 1999
Vienna, Austria
"Here's your passport, Mr. Lieberman," the pretty customs agent said with a smile. "Welcome to Austria. I hope you enjoy your stay here."
Charles Ulrich smiled back as he took his passport. He was travelling under a false name, one he hadn't used since 1918. His brown hair was dyed blond, and he wore a false beard. As much as he hated going in disguise, he hated the thought of falling prey to the Hunters even more. It had only been a week since he had sent his team of private investigators to find these killers. Now, one of his agents, Dieter Corman, was reported dead shortly after having reported a possible lead here in Vienna.
Damn it, Corman, I told you not to be a hero, thought Ulrich. That young man was always taking risks, despite what Ulrich himself taught him. When the one hundred fifty-seven-year old Immortal had briefed his agents, he warned them not to engage the Hunters. He didn't want to send Corman, but he needed all the agents who were available. Surely enough, Corman had not been as cautious as he thought and paid with his life. Ulrich had decided to take over the investigation himself. What had been a matter of survival was now a matter of revenge. Ulrich didn't take kindly to anyone harming his people, let alone killing them.
Outside the airport, a uniformed man standing by a black Mercedes Benz limousine was waiting for him. Ulrich nodded his head in greeting as he stepped into the car. "Welcome back, sir. Nice to see you again so soon," said the driver.
"Thank you, Ottmar," replied Ulrich. "I had planned to return to London, but something has come up. I don't know how long I'll be staying. Is my saber here?" Ottmar Schneider replied that it was in the trunk.
Ulrich smiled, reassured. He didn't like being parted from his saber, especially with the Hunters running rampant. He knew he would never be able to get it through customs, so he hid it in his private jet, where one of his employees retrieved it. At least he had a Luger hidden in the back seat. He poured himself a glass of Merlot from the limo's bar and tried to relax.
After spending a few hours getting himself settled in, Ulrich contacted his remaining agents in Vienna. He was informed that Corman's last known location was in the Ringstrasse. Another agent, Marc Seward, had found him dead. Ulrich decided to take a trip there.
Crossing the bridge over the Danube River, Ulrich glanced at the murky water in disgust. He remembered the time it was still blue and clean, inspiring Johann Strauss, Jr. to write that timeless waltz. Strauss must be doing cartwheels in his grave, Ulrich thought sadly. When he reached his destination, he decided to stop at a cafe and observe the surrounding area. Everything seemed normal until he sensed another Immortal nearby.
"Nice to see you again, Chuck," said a familiar voice behind him. Ulrich winced; he hated being called "Chuck." He turned to face his old mentor, Maximillian Honnecker. The dark-haired, square-jawed Immortal grinned at his student. "You're getting sloppy, Ulrich. You should have seen me coming toward you before I got this close. The Hunters are after us, you know. I like what you've done with your hair, by the way."
"Point well taken, Mackie," replied Charles Ulrich. Honnecker hated the moniker "Mackie" as much as Ulrich hated being called "Chuck." He smiled when Honnecker gave him an insincere glare. "And you should see me with the beard. So what brings you here, Max? I thought you were supposed to be working with the Army Chief-of-Staff in Stuttgart."
"I've been allowed to go on sympathy leave. Those bastards got Marta Kessler. I intend to put a stop to this nonsense." Marta Kessler was another student of Honnecker. She was only fifty years old.
"That's why I sent my agents to Vienna. Now one of my boys is dead, too. I guess we're on the same mission. We ought to team up."
"I agree. We'll have better luck working together. Fill me in on the latest details."
"Jawol, Herr General!" Ulrich snapped to attention and saluted.
"Shut up, Ulrich," said Honnecker. They both laughed.
After spending two hours asking questions and getting information, the two Immortals ate dinner and returned to Honnecker's hotel. Honnecker asked, "So what's our next move?"
"I'm going to talk to my agents and see what they've come up with. It seems that there are less than ten of them in the city and they have at least two hideouts. One of them is probably their center of operation. I'm going to see if the descriptions of those two men described by the shopkeeper match any of my people's suspects. They may have left me a message in my hotel."
"It's a pity you can't stay in your mansion, although it's probable the Hunters are keeping an eye on it right now."
"I know. I'd rather live at home, but that may not be the safest option right now."
Ulrich returned to his hotel at nine thirty in the evening. There were two messages for him. The first came from Marc Seward. The message stated that "a new situation has developed," meaning that he had discovered a new lead. The second message came from his secretary in Dresden, Sigrid Haflinger, who claimed to have urgent news.
Ulrich returned to his room and decided to contact Sigrid first. Sigrid was quite distressed; she informed him that the security of the agents had been compromised. One of Ulrich's employees was working for the killers (as the Hunters were known to the agency). Ulrich asked, "Do you know who our spy is, Sigrid?"
"No, sir," replied Sigrid, "but we believe he is still in Vienna. We don't think he was responsible for Ms. Kessler's death, but he may be after you. Please be careful, Herr Ulrich."
"I always am, Frau Haflinger. Danke." Ulrich hung up. He hadn't considered the possibility of one of his employees betraying him. He carefully screened them before hiring them, then personally trained them. They all knew one another well. Only Ulrich's Immortal past was kept from them. That meant the Hunters planted someone in his organization at least three years ago. God, these bastards are patient, he thought. He tried to think who among his detectives here would do such a thing: Schroeder, Baumer, Erik, Seward...Seward! He had left a message about a new lead. Was this real, or was it an ambush? There was only one way to find out. He picked up the phone and called Seward.
"Mr. Ulrich," said Seward, "we believe the suspects may be planning to leave town tonight. Erik and Baumer are keeping an eye on their residence near the train station at Bahnhofe. Shroeder is on his way to meet you."
"Well done, Mr. Seward. I'll be waiting for him at the lobby." Ulrich decided to call Honnecker. There was no answer. A sudden chill ran through Ulrich. He thought, If those devils got to him too, I will personally kill them all! He rushed to the lobby where Schroeder was waiting for him. Ulrich ordered Schroeder to drive to Honnecker's hotel, purposely turning his back to him at the empty parking lot.
Upon arriving at Honnecker's hotel, Ulrich sensed another Immortal nearby, which meant that Honnecker was still alive. Sighing in relief, he saw his mentor speaking to a constable. After the police left, Ulrich disembarked and met his friend. "I tried to call you and became concerned when you didn't answer," said Ulrich. "What just happened here?"
Honnecker replied, "I was attacked by two men armed with guns and swords. They weren't Immortal. I managed to fight them off, but they escaped. It appears that one of the other hotel guests heard the commotion and called the police."
"It's just as well they escaped," said Ulrich. "Imagine having to explain why they were carrying swords. My agents have informed me that they are staying near the train station and are preparing to leave tonight. But one of them may be working for the Hunters. It seems likely they're going to set a trap for us tonight." The two friends walked to the car, where Schroeder was talking on the car phone.
"The suspects are moving, and they've split up. Three of them are headed toward the train station, and two others are heading north by automobile. Seward is following them, and they may be headed toward the Prater Park," Schroeder reported.
"Tell Baumer and Weber to follow the suspects to the station. Get there as soon as you can and help apprehend the suspects. General Honnecker and I will take the other two. Be careful, Schroeder. There's a turncoat in our ranks."
"Yes, sir. Good luck." Schroeder drove off into the night. Ulrich and Honnecker drove to the park in the latter's Lexus.
"There's a traitor in your midst, you say?" asked Honnecker. "Why don't you think it's Schroeder?"
"When we were heading over to see you, I turned my back to him in a deserted parking lot. He had the perfect opportunity to kill me. The fact that I'm still here means that he's innocent."
"Do you have any suspects? It could be that Seward chap."
"Possibly. It seems a bit too convenient that he discovered both Corman's body and the Hunters' lair. Then again, it sounds like a set up. The clues pointing to his being the traitor are likewise too obvious."
The drive to the Prater Park was uneventful. Once they arrived, they disembarked and walked into the vast expanse, carefully scanning the area. After walking for fifteen minutes, they saw a man hiding by the trees. It was Seward, and he seemed to have been shot in the arm. Both Immortals, swords around their waists, ran to him.
"Hope, you've got lots of ammo," gasped Seward. "There are five of them out there, all armed to the teeth. They knew you were coming for them, both of you."
"Stay here, Seward," said Ulrich. "We'll take care of this." Ulrich and Honnecker moved forward, making sure they wouldn't be caught by surprise. They drew their Lugers.
Honnecker saw movement behind a bush and opened fire. A muffled thud was heard as a corpse landed on the ground. It was a woman armed with an Uzi.
More shots rang out as the firefight began. Another Hunter, a heavy-set man, fell, but not before wounding Honnecker's right leg. He fell to his knees. Ulrich was hit in the right shoulder and he dropped his gun.
Two Hunters approached the Immortals, swords drawn. The Immortals likewise drew their blades. Ulrich wielded his cavalry saber in his left hand, while Honnecker held his broadsword in a two-handed grip. They squared off against their opponents.
Ulrich's opponent, a stern-looking woman, held a Beretta in her left hand and a broad-bladed short sword in her right hand. She decided to shoot Ulrich before attempting to behead him. Ulrich anticipated that move. He rolled to the ground toward her as she fired. He rose to his feet, thrusting upwards. The woman jumped back, parrying the blow. She attempted to stab Ulrich. He deflected the attack and sliced her throat. She died before hitting the ground.
Honnecker's assailant was a tall man wielding a falchion. Deciding to attack before Honnecker's leg healed. The Hunter feinted an attack to the right then attempted a downward cut. Honnecker parried and made an unsuccessful riposte. The elder Immortal felt the wound in his leg closing, so he used the longer reach of his blade to keep his foe at bay. As soon as he regained his mobility, he quickly disarmed his opponent. Honnecker grabbed the man and threw him to the ground, pinning him down.
"Which of you fiends murdered Marta?" shouted Honnecker. "Who's responsible? Who?" Two gunshots rang out. Honnecker was knocked to the ground as a bullet hit him in the back. He heard Ulrich groan as the second bullet struck the younger Immortal. Honnecker's foe stood up and retrieved his falchion.
Ulrich doubled over in pain and fell as a bullet entered his stomach. He tried to spot his assailant. His eyes widened in surprise when he recognized the traitor. It wasn't Seward, as he half-expected. It was Ottmar Schneider.
Schneider lowered his Mauser and picked up the sword of the woman Ulrich killed. "You don't know how hard it was," he began, "playing the part of a good servant all these years, observing you and gaining your trust. But I fooled you, didn't I? Now it's time to indulge myself."
"Did you kill Marta Kessler?" asked Ulrich.
"Yes, and Corman too. A pity about Corman, but he got too close to discovering my plans. Now you'll die, too, but not before you see your mentor die. Fritz, kill that abomination. He has lived too long."
The tall man raised his sword. Then Seward appeared and shot the Hunter in the head, killing him instantly. Seward pointed his still smoking Colt .45 at Schneider. "You'll pay for Corman's death."
"Don't kill him, Marc," said Ulrich. Ignoring the still burning sensation in his abdomen, he stood up and backhanded Schneider hard. The turncoat fell to the ground.
Schneider spat out blood and looked up spitefully at Ulrich. "So you want the pleasure of killing me yourself, eh?" he mocked. "I thought you didn't harm your own people."
"I don't. Killing you is someone else's privilege." Ulrich dragged Schneider to Honnecker, who had recovered and retrieved his sword.
"This is for Marta," said Honnecker, as he thrust his blade through Schneider's heart. The Hunter gasped and died. Ulrich was sad about Schneider. He had been a good employee and Ulrich had come to trust and rely on him. But he had more urgent matters at hand.
"Thanks, Seward," said Ulrich, "We owe you one. Come on, let's get you to a doctor."
"How about you guys? I saw you getting shot. And what the hell is all that sword business about anyway?"
"The General and I are all right. As for the sword business, as you call it, you don't know anything about it, right?"
The bodies of the dead Hunters were secretly buried. Seward was taken to a hospital, treated and released. Soon afterwards, he received a call from Ilsa Baumer. She reported that her team apprehended the remaining Hunters as they attempted to flee. They also recovered some files. When Ulrich inspected the files, he noticed they included a list of Immortals living in Europe the Hunters were planning to kill. Ulrich immediately contacted his agents in Dresden and had them send word to the Immortals about the potential threat to their lives.
Two days later, Charles Ulrich was back in his mansion in Vienna. Now that the Hunters were gone, he could feel safe in his home, although not as safe as he once felt. He mentally reminded himself to find a more foolproof method of screening his employees.
Honnecker, Seward, Baumer, Weber, and Schroeder were all in the mansion. Although Honnecker mourned Marta Kessler and the detectives grieved for Corman, they had at least avenged their deaths. They were also given a week off work and a bonus in their pay. That was enough cause to celebrate the success of their mission. Erik Weber opened the champagne, while Baumer and Schroeder helped themselves to the food. Seward cracked some of his jokes that always made everyone groan. Ulrich and Honnecker enjoyed port and cigars as they played billiards.
"I'll be heading back to Stuttgart tomorrow," said Honnecker. "It wouldn't do for a general to go AWOL. Although rank has its privileges, it's bad for morale."
"Take my jet," offered Ulrich. "I'll make the necessary arrangements."
"Thanks, Charles. I appreciate it."
"What's the use of owning an airline company if you can't give your friends a free ride once in a while?" Ulrich made his shot and took a sip of his port. "It's good to be the king, eh?" he added.
"Quite so. Maybe I'll rack up my frequent flier miles. On your expense, of course," said Honnecker, taking a puff of his cigar.
"Sure," smiled Ulrich. "As long as you don't mind being booked on a cargo plane filled with farm animals."
Honnecker coughed up smoke as he laughed. "You wouldn't dare," he said.
Ulrich laughed.
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Later, after Max Honnecker had left, Ulrich sat in his library, smoking another cigar and finishing off the port.
After glancing at the clock and mentally calculating the time change, he reached for the phone. He didn't for a minute believe that the problem with the Hunters was over - they didn't give up that easily.
His staff had contacted as many Immortals as they could whose names had been found on the Hunter's hit list. But Ulrich knew that there was probably more than one list.
He dialled a number, waiting for the pips and beeps that signaled an overseas call. Finally, the phone began to ring. Ulrich hoped the man, wherever he was, had remembered to have his calls forwarded to his current location. It was answered on the third tone.
"David?" Ulrich questioned. "David, it's Charles Ulrich. I think we need to talk…"
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05 September 1999
Glasgow, Scotland
The couch in Sandy Traynor's apartment was not the most comfortable piece of furniture he had. It was likely the worst, in fact. He would lay on it when he wanted to think because the bloody thing would not let him drift off to sleep. Right now, he needed to think. The meeting with the man at the pub two days ago had left a mark on him, to say the least, and he wanted to ponder his next move, if one was needed at all.
When Traynor had exited the pub, pint glass in hand, he had expected a bullet in the back of the head right then. He knew the man who had put the coaster on his drink. It was Seamus Braden, an IRA shooter from the 1980s. Traynor had seen his face before. What he did not expect was to see that face in Glasgow. When he had, the only thing going through Traynor's mind was his past had finally caught him. He expected to die at any moment. At least he would have a drink in his hand when it happened.
He was not at all surprised by the sound of the gunfire behind him. He did raise an eyebrow when not a single round came anywhere near him, though. Traynor had turned and watched as four armed men in balaclavas had exited a panel van and run into the Ben Nevis. He also saw that Braden was still right behind him, smiling. He had looked into Braden's face, his own surprise obvious.
"Collin Daugherty sends his belated thanks to you, Mr. Traynor, for saving his daughter, Nicollete," Braden had said. "Have a good night." Braden had then walked past Traynor, leaving him with his purloined pint and a stunned expression, and disappeared.
Collin Daugherty. That was a name Traynor had not heard for almost fourteen years. The last time, he had been a young corporal walking patrols in Belfast looking to shoot the man on sight. Now, Traynor was receiving a thank you message from him. How things change.
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17 April 1984
Belfast, Northern Ireland
The twelve men with solemn faces walked north up Albert Street, their eyes scanning every window, doorway, and rooftop as they went. They even checked the faces of every civilian - man, woman, and child - who passed them. Everyone was a suspect in Northern Ireland. Especially for a British soldier on patrol in such a place.
The men were divided into two columns, one on either side of the street. Sergeant Tom Reynolds, the squad leader, commanded the left column. Corporal Steven "Sandy" Traynor, the assistant squad leader, controlled the other. Both were veterans of "The Troubles," as the conflict in Northern Ireland was called, having been serving there for the past eighteen months. Their men were a mixture, though. While not exactly green, the two new additions to the squad had served in other parts of the United Kingdom's troubled areas around the world; they were not familiar with the particulars of Northern Ireland, though. It was a world all its own.
Traynor was the third man in his column. Private Wilcox was the point man and Private Griggs was behind him. Traynor was in the center so he could best control the section. Wilcox passed two six-year old girls playing near a doorway and paused to observe the intersection of Albert and Divis Streets. The spot was not good so he moved up further for a better view. Traynor's section continued forward cautiously, as well.
The intersection was an excellent spot for an ambush. Corporal Traynor was not surprised by the fact it came, only that it happened while so many civilians were in the street. The IRA often warned pedestrians to stay clear when the British came by so they would not become casualties themselves. It was actually a warning sign of such an event.
The initial contact came from the roof across the street. Three gunmen on the northeast side of the intersection emerged and opened fire on Wilcox and Griggs. Both men took cover behind nearby vehicles and returned fire. Across the street, on the northwest side of the intersection, four more men, one of them with an RPG on his shoulder, materialized from a cluster of trees. Private Albert, the point man from Reynolds' section, fired at them. One fell immediately.
An explosion to Traynor's left made him turn his head. He looked up. Atop the Cullingtree Housing block of apartments, he spotted four other men. A small, dark object was rolling down the slanted roof in the direction of Reynolds' men. A grenade! The small bomb exploded in the air, raining its shrapnel across the area. Two soldiers fell screaming.
Traynor sought cover from the fire of the men on the apartment roof in the only spot he could, poor as it was, the doorway near him. Beside him was one of the girls who Wilcox had passed earlier. Traynor did not see the other girl. The child seemed frozen in place in terror. Traynor seized the back of the girl's dress with his left hand and lifted her from the pavement. The child screamed and kicked. Traynor tossed the struggling girl through the open doorway into the relative safety of the building and then pressed his body against the brick wall of the doorway's exterior. He put his rifle to his shoulder and opened fire at the rooftop.
The firefight had not lasted long. Three soldiers had been wounded and two of the gunmen killed, another four injured and captured, before it ended. The remainder of the attacking force faded away in the streets of Belfast. Sergeant Reynolds and Corporal Traynor had called for extraction and taken their battered men away for medical treatment. That had been the last time Sandy Traynor had had anything to do with Collin Daugherty, as far as he knew. His application to attend special forces training was approved two days later. His time pounding the streets of Belfast had ended.
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Traynor shook his head and rolled onto his side on the couch. He didn't think he would have the ghosts of Belfasts looming up to visit him after all these years. Why had they done so now?
It's been a long time just to say thank you. Was it really just that? Maybe. And, curiously, what did those gunmen want with going after that man who had been following me these last few weeks? He seemed harmless enough. He was probably just a private investigator my ex-wife hired to see who I'm sleeping around with these days. Or maybe something else. Hmmm…
Traynor sat up slowly. He did have one way of asking around for information. It was slow and quite burdensome since it involved speaking so carefully. He couldn't just come right out and say what he wanted, if he used that method. He stood and walked over to his personal computer. What the hell? He'd do it anyway. What else was he doing besides wasting away on his couch not getting drunk?
Traynor logged onto a message board designed primarily for paratroopers to shoot the shit. Sometimes, though, there were other types of communication, if one knew how to do it just right. Traynor opened a new message, typed, "The Kilted Heathen Is Sober…and Pissed Off About It," and began his missive. Most of the responses, he knew, would be the typical lot responding just for the fun of it. He was a popular figure on this board, after all. What he wanted, though, was one or two particular people to answer him. He'd just have to wait and see if they checked the board.
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06 September 1999
El Bobar, Spain
The dropbox did contain a message from David Ashton. Dublin and Ashton had used the dropbox method of communication for centuries. Slow but dependable, it had enabled them to pass messages to each other for a long time. The only real failing was one of them had to be in the area to send or receive a message. The fact that a note was in this box now meant Ashton had passed through here recently.
The writing was in Sumerian cuneiform, a wedge-shaped style of communication Ashton had required Dublin learn hundreds of years before. It was yet another layer of security for them. Not just anyone could read it. The note was short. Dublin should meet Ashton in Paris. An address was given along with a phone number. Dublin memorized the information and burned the paper.
Now the Irishman gazed at the other item he had found in the box. It was something that shouldn't be there, a second note, from a different person. Dublin was sure the note had been left after Ashton's, else the Minoan would likely have removed it. This message was written in modern Spanish and in a hand that Dublin did not recognize.
Señor Dublín,
Es demasiado peligroso para ti permanecer en España. Todos los Inmortales en Europa están en peligro. Por su propia seguridad, debe salir inmediatamente. Encuentra a tus amigos, David Ashton y Jonathan Fairbanks, y adviérteles también.
- Un amigo
(Mister Dublin,
It is too dangerous for you to remain in Spain. All Immortals in Europe are in danger. For your own safety, you should leave immediately. Find your friends, David Ashton and Jonathan Fairbanks, and warn them, as well.
- A Friend)
This note Dublin kept. He put it in his pocket and placed the dropbox back in its hiding place. Walking away, he decided he would heed the warning he had received. After what he had witnessed with Javier Lucas a few weeks ago, it seemed like sound advice.
